I glanced absentmindedly as I shoved my key into its hole.

Danger: exposure or liability to injury, pain, harm, or loss.

A sinking feeling washed over me. It settled at the base of my spine, applying persistent pressure. “You aren’t here to apologize, are you?” I breathed, my eyes still on my door.

“Apologize?” His arm came from behind me to rest above my head. His warm breath skated over the back of my neck, making the little hairs on it stand on end. The Chase effect. “Whatever the hell for?”

I pushed the door open, letting Chase into my apartment. My domain. My life.

Painfully aware of the fact that the last time he’d barged into my kingdom, he’d also burned it down.

CHAPTER TWO

MADDIE

July 2, 1999

Dear Maddie,

Today, we pressed Mrs. Hunnam’s wilted daisies into your old books together. You said you wanted to give them a proper burial because you felt bad for them. Your empathy made my throat clog up. That’s why I turned around and walked out of the room. Not because of the pollen. Of course not. God, I’m a florist!

Fun fact: Daisies symbolize purity, fresh starts.

I hope you are still compassionate, kindhearted, and that you remember every day is a new beginning.

Love,

Forever,

Mom. x

I kicked my shoes against the wall. Daisy rushed from her bed on the windowsill by the flowers, wiggling her tail as she began licking between my toes in greeting. Truth be told, it wasn’t her most ladylike habit, but it was among the least destructive ones.

“To what do I owe the displeasure, Mr. Black?” I peeled my yellow jacket off.

“We have an issue.” Chase gave Daisy a pat before sauntering deeper into my studio. It seemed unfair, almost twisted, that I had wasted so many tears and sleepless nights coming to terms with the fact he would never stand casually in my kitchen again, only to . . . well, have him standing in my kitchen again, looking casual AF. Like nothing had changed. But that wasn’t true. I’d changed.

Chase opened the fridge, plucking out a can of Diet Coke—my Diet Coke—and cracked it open before leaning against the counter and taking a sip.

I stared him down, wondering if he was the one suffering from a sudden stroke. He looked around my crumpled, tiny space, no doubt taking inventory of the changes I’d made since he’d last been here. New wallpaper from Anthropologie, fresh bedsheets, and (least noticeable, but nonetheless existent) the new dent in my heart, the shape of his iron fist. He flicked the lights on—I had one set for the entire apartment—and whistled low.

Under the unforgiving LED lights, I noticed that he looked disheveled and unshaven. His eyes were bloodshot, his shirt a little wrinkled. His $200 haircut was in desperate need of a trim. Very unlike the handsome, immaculate rake he prided himself on being. Like the world had finally decided to press its crushing weight on his glorious shoulders.

“My family seems to have taken a liking to you,” he admitted coolly, like the prospect was about as unlikely as a straight unicorn.

I marched toward him, snatching the Diet Coke from his grasp. I took a sip on principle and put it on the counter between us. “And?”

“My mother can’t stop talking about the banana bread you promised to bake for her, my sister’s lifelong dream is to become your BFF since you knit her that hat, and my father swears you are every man’s dream woman.”

“I happen to think very highly of your family too,” I said. It was the truth. The Blacks were nothing like the spawn they’d mistakenly spewed into the world. They were sweet and compassionate and welcoming. Always smiling and, above all, frequently offering me a glass of wine.

“But not me,” he supplied with a hedonistic smirk that suggested he took pleasure in being disliked. Like he’d achieved his goal. Unlocked a level in a video game.

“Not you.” I gave him a curt nod. “Which is why flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Not trying to get anywhere with you,” he assured me, his chest expanding under his shirt. A phantom of his scent—woodsy, aftershave, and male—drifted into my nostrils, making me quiver. “Not in the way that you think.”

“Get on with it, Chase.” I sighed, looking down and wiggling my toes. I wanted him out of here so I could dive under the duvet and binge-watch Supernatural. The only thing that could save tonight was a healthy dose of Jensen Ackles combined with unholy amounts of chocolate and impulsive internet shopping. Also, wine. I would kill for a bottle. With the victim preferably being the man in front of me.

“There’s a problem,” he said.

There always was with him. I stared at him blankly so he would continue. Then he did the weirdest thing. He . . . sort . . . of . . . flinched? The Chase Black.

“I may have forgotten to mention we broke up,” he said cautiously, averting his gaze to Daisy, who was currently humping the couch’s leg with an enthusiastic dog smile.

“You what?” My head snapped up, my teeth clashing together. “It’s been six months.” And three days. And twenty-one hours. Not that I was counting. “What were you thinking?”

He rubbed his knuckles against his stubble, eyes still trained on my hussy pup. “Frankly, I thought you’d realize you overreacted and come back.”

If I were a cartoon character, my jaw would drop to the floor, and my tongue would roll out like a red carpet, bumping into the door, through which I would later hurl Chase, leaving a hole the shape of his body.

I pressed my fingers to my eye sockets, drawing a ragged breath. “You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”

“My sense of humor is better than that.”

“Well, I hope your sense of direction is just as good, so you can go back to your family and tell them we’re definitely done.” I stomped to the door, throwing it open and motioning for him to leave with a head jerk.

“There’s more.” Chase remained propped against my counter, his hands tucked into his pockets nonchalantly. He had a few signature positions that were inked into the backs of my eyelids and saved for rainy Magic Wand days.

Chase casually leaning a hip against an inanimate object.

Chase holding the top of the doorframe, his biceps and triceps bulging out of his short-sleeved T-shirt.

Chase with one hand tucked into his front pocket, his sex eyes undressing me slowly.

Essentially, I had an entire catalog of my ex inspiring self-induced orgasms with his looks alone. Which, admittedly, was a level of pathetic that needed a new name.

“I was going to tell them we were done a couple weeks ago, but my father beat me to it in the bad news department.”

“Oh shoot. Has the superyacht broken down?” I put a hand over my chest, feigning concern. Ronan Black, the owner of Black & Co., Manhattan’s busiest department store, led a charmed life full of vacations, private jets, and grandiose family gatherings. Still, speaking ill of the people who’d welcomed me into their house left a sour taste in my mouth.

“He has stage-four cancer. Prostate. It spread to his bones. Kidneys. Blood. He wasn’t screened. My mother had been begging him for years, but he didn’t want the discomfort, I guess. Needless to say, it is incurable. He’s got three months to live.” He paused. “Generously speaking.”